PS zsi^ 





/92^ 



PRISON POEMS 

BY 
WILUAM KAVANAUGH JOHNSTON 

PRISONER OF NEVADA 



COPYRIGHT RESERVED 
1922 



W4'WM'^iW^''^ 



CU658351 



MAR -6 i9?2 



KJ \^ PREFACE 

[Copyright Reserved.] 



"Hope springs eternal in the human breast." 

My object in offering for sale these little poems, is, that 
I may accumulate a small sum of m.oney with which to obtain legal 
advice, so that I may make preparation to lay my case before the Board 
of Pardons and Paroles ,in an effort to som.e tim.e regain niy freedom 
before life's sun drops forever below the v.'estern horizon of life's sky. 

The tragedy which brought me within these walls, ( it may 
be for life ) could not be avoided by me, unless I allovv^ed my late an-- 
tagonist to take my life, without defending my life which God gave, and 
which he also gave me the right to defend. When that day of judgment 
shall come, "when even the sea, shall give up its dead," I have no 
fear as to the verdict of the Divine Judge, whose ruling will be just 
and final, touching upon the case of my dead antagonist and myself. 

Hoping that I may yet see the sun of freedom flood the earth 
again with its rosy glow, I am, 

Yours truly, 
WILLIAM KAVANAUGH JOHNSTON 



One of these booklets mailed to any address upon application to: 
W. K. Johnston, 
Box 607 Carson City, Nevada. 



THE CONVICT 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Copyright Reserved. 

Midnight bells of sorrow wake the convict 
From his fitful dreams of freedom dear; 
He sighs for sweetheart, home and mother, 
Then sheds for all the penitential tear. 

Then comes the hour of breaking day 
When all the world awakes to noisy strife, 
And he with quivering lips and breaking heart. 
Prays God to take his sinful, weary life. 

Then God, to fill his heart with hope again, 
Now floods his cell with shimmering rays of gold- 
The same that makes the shepherd sing with joy, 
As he calls his sheep from out their sheltering fold. 



SWEET MARIE 

By 
W. K. Johnston 

Copyright Reserved. 

There's a girl in far away Nebraska -- 
She's all the v/orld to me-- 
I long to hold her in my arms again, 
And whisper, "Sv/eet Marie", 

When twilight comes, the lamp's alight -- 
A beacon burned for me; 
I long to see her light that lamp -- 
The girl I call my sweet Marie - 

Some years ago, we danced together, she and I, 

To music soft and sweet, as though it came fi"om Summer sea; 

And she did smile with eyes alight with love. 

As I did hold her close, my dear Marie. 

If I should lose this life mine, 
Upon death's darkened sea, 
With smiling lips, and latest breath, 
I'd sing of sweet Marie. 



AUTUMN DAYS 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Copyright Reserved. 

Now blushing autumn comes again 
With softly pattering footsteps near, 
To turn to red and deepest gold, 
The whispering leaves of Summer dear. 

So lightly fall her steps of death, 
We strain our ear to catch the sound 
Of luscious fruit and falling nuts, 
That temptingly now strew the ground. 

The v/inesap apple's crimson blush. 
Speaks of a girl who gave a sigh 
For summer days, when she and I, 
With clinging hands, stole softly by. 

Dear sadly, murmuring, autumn days. 
You speak of summer's dying glow, 
Because the rustling, falling leaves 
Remind us, that, we love you so. 



EMBERS OF HOPE 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Copyright Reserved. 

The flame of hope is burning low, 

It needs the breath of love divine, 

To fan the smoldering embers of it's past 

Until the flame again with splendor shine. 

Dear smoldering embers of the past, 

I con with grief, your bygone glories bright. 
And hope to fan you into life again, 

Until you fill my heart with purest light. 

Oh, give to m.e a thought as pure again 

As cooing song of nesting turtle dove, 

That I may coax the smoldering embers of the past. 
To burst into a flame again as bright as love, 

And if these em.bers come to life again, 

I hope the flame v/111 have a brighter glow, 

To safely guide me to that home divine - 
M5' God and Savior there to knov^/. 



c^ 



THE TWILIGHT HOUR 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

When twilight comes and shadows creep, 
Across the mountains strong and tall, 

There comes the dying sounds of day, 

As the night bird gives gives his plaintive call. 

No loving voice can greet me now. 

With cheery laughter - loving call, 
Life's dream for me is ended now, 

Within this grim and grey old wall. 

When God's own twilight falls for man, 

Across His great eternal sea; 
I hope He'll let one mellow shaft, 

Just fall across that sea for me. 



c^ 



THE FOOTHILLS OF KENTUCKY 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Copyright Reserved. 

If you would forget your troubles, 
If you wish to banish gloom, 
See the foothills of Kentucky, 
When the peach trees are in bloom. 

There's fragrance in the meadows, 
There's music in the looms 
About the mountaineer's cabin, 
When the peach trees are in bloom. 

There's the blooded colts in Uncle's pasture, 
Neighing for the salting grooms. 
They'll be ready for the race track, 
When the peach trees are in bloom. 

Dear old hewed log school house on the hilltop, 
Where m^aids and boys spoon, ^ 
I long to see you once again. 
When the peach trees are in bloom. 

Mother loved the pine-clad hilltops, 
As she v/alked beneath the moon. 
In the foothills of Kentucky, 
When the peach trees were in bloom. 



THE SHOW GIRL 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

Thou girl divine! I miss you when the the tv/iUght hour, 

Steals o'er the rugged rocky hills, 

'Tis then your voice comes softly back to me 

Vv^ith sound as sweet as all the whippoorwills. 

A girl with a loving soul - a voice as sweet as a turtle-dove - 
And when she smiles, luoking up at me, 
Her eyes are like the stars above. 

She has gone far away, I shall see her no more, 
Nor hear her sweet voice again. 
Yet I am glad I knew her and heard her sing, 
Though she filled m^y heart v.'ith the sweetest pain. 

Sweet bird of song, I wish you loved the sunny slopes of Texas, 

Like you love Connecticut's hills so far away; 

That I miight coax, and hold you in m.y arms forever and a day. 



THE HILLS OF ILLINOIS 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

I long to hear again the bells of Sunday School, 
Sending their silvery melody across the hills to girls and boys, 
As they called us all to worship, near the softly flowing Wabash, 
In the hills of Illinois. 

Dear boyhood days! I'd like to live you o'er again. 

And till again once more the rich and verdant soil, 

In the lowlands of the peaceful flowing Wabash, 

In the hills of Illinois. 
* 

There the graceful morning glory, 
Caused my soul to soar aloft and poise. 
In thrills of youthful ecstasies, 

Above the hills of Illinois. 

While one did crown her queenly head vv^ith morning glories, 
And called me then her king of boys, 

As she and I, with arms entwined, ^ 

Did play about the hills of Illinois. 



NANNIE ROWE 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

When Nannie Rowe, came down the road, 
Along the Wabash river; 
She seemed an angel, quite, to me, 
My boyish heart was all a-quiver. 

With golden hair and eyes of blue, 
She seemed angelic then to me; 
I dreamed at night, I held her close, 
And that we sailed loves bUssful sea. 

Can other love e'er fill again, 

A boyish heart, so full of bUss, 

As that first love neath moonlit skies, 

When he bestows his first - love kiss? 

In fear to wound another heart. 
That beats with love so good true; 
I'll answer not this question now. 
But leave the answer all to you. 

In memory of Indiana, and 
Nannie Rowe. 



THE FIRST BORN BABE 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

The first born babe of ardent love, 
Reminds us of the pink-hke flower 
That blushes on the springtime air, 
As m.other gives her love in one great shower. 

She calls the babe her rose of love, 
And soothes it on her matron's breast, 
And coo's of husband far away, 
Then prays to God that he be blest. 

When throbs of bliss shall kill all pangs of woe, 
Until the sunrise of that hoped for day, 
And father of the babe in arms shall stray no more, 
Because he loves his baby so. 



Author's note: 

Written in honor of the birth of the baby of my ceil mate's wife. 
The babe having been born after the incarceration of the father. 

W. K. J. 



THE SEA OF LEAVES 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

This golden leaf is just one drop, 

In a waving beautiful sea; 

That rolls and surges as larger it grows, 

Under the cottonwood trees. 

The martin box is empty now. 

The birds of courage have flown away; 

Through the summer days they fought the hawk, 

With a graceful curve and courageous sway. 

They flew to the south and sunny lands. 
These birds with courage bold, 
•They will come again and inhabit 'their home, 
Till warned to leave by the sea of gold-- 

That rolls and tosses in autumn time, 
On softly noisy, beautiful lees; 
This golden sea of failing leaves, 
Under the stately cottonwood trees. 

Written after sending a leaf from the Cottonwood's 
(grov/ing in front of the prison) away in a letter. 



THE INDIANA HOMESTEAD 

By 

W. K. Johnston 

Prisoner of Nevada 

[Copyright Reserved.] 

The old sugar tree by the cabin home, 
Had to me a friendly shady look; 
And the water we drew from the well hard by, 
Was cooler than that from the bubbling brook- 
That ran near the farm of my friend, "Eb" Doan, 
In Indiana so far away; 

When days were a romance, and nights a dream, 
And the fireside groups were joyous and gay. 

There was Annie, and Minnie, and Janie, too, 

His daughters so sweet, in friendship so dear; 

When remembering their sweetness, I pause by their graves, 

And give them the wanderer's parting tear. 

That moistens the rose of memory's life. 
That throws its perfume o'er sorrows today, 
Like the fountain of youth, v/hose waters give life, 
And softens grief with its beautiful spray. 



GOOD NIGHT 
By 
W. K. Johnston 
Prisoner of Nevada 
[ Copyright Reserved . ] 

Dear dreamy, fading days 
Of smiling summer bright; 
I give you up with sorrow, 
That's almost sv/eet: Good night! 

When spring shall come and blend 
Into the summ.er's glorious light; 
I hope to live and breathe again, 
Your sv/eet perfum.e: Good night! 

When springtime breezes blow, again, 
Away the winter's Might, 
I hope they'll waft to me once more, 
Dear freedomi's breeze, Good night! 

But if the wind of death, 
Should close forever from life's vSight, 
These eyes, that glov/ v/ith love of Hfe, 
Before the spring: Good night! 



Printed by: M. Newnham 
206 Clay Peters BldR. Reno, Nev. 
(Stenographer) 



■.m-- 



